


Just A Boy

by halfsweet



Category: Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Internal Conflict, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Playgrounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-11-06 10:09:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11034036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfsweet/pseuds/halfsweet
Summary: “I’m ready when you are.”Brendon nods his head, even though he knows the stranger doesn’t see it. He begins to swing again—him swinging forward, the stranger backward—and he blows out a breath. “Have you ever felt invisible? I mean, like, people not seeing you for who you really are?”





	Just A Boy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sicklysweetpanic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sicklysweetpanic/gifts).



> Inspired by California - Ricky Montgomery! Enjoy!
> 
>  
> 
> ~~(and maybe a little Breathe by He Is We bc I am such trash for the duo)~~

Brendon wipes off the sweat on his forehead as he walks off the stage as soon as the lights go out. The crowd’s deafening cheers are still reverberating throughout the arena, and if he were on stage like he was just seconds ago, he would’ve paused and let the adrenaline rush flow in his veins, but not this very second. Not when he’s already back in the solitude of his dressing room, his _rock star_ mask melting and slipping to reveal a tired boy, longing for a life outside of fame.

After a quick shower, he pulls the hood over his head and grabs his wallet and phone, shoving them in his pockets and sneakily making his way past everyone.

“And where do you think you’re going?”

His body freezes at the voice. Great. Just when he thought he can get away for once. He turns around with a heavy sigh, feet shuffling under his weight. “I won’t be out for long. I’ll get back to the bus in an hour, I promise.”

He looks up to see Zack’s stern, yet concerned expression. “I’ll go with you.”

“N- No, it’s fine.” He stutters out. It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate Zack’s presence—if he has to be honest, Zack’s the only person who can make him feel a little less homesick when he’s on tour—but it’s just that he wants to be alone for a while.

When Zack lifts his eyebrow, Brendon huffs in annoyance and glares to the side. “I’m a big boy, y’know. I can take care of myself. I don’t need constant supervision like I’m some _child.”_

“Brendon.” Zack sighs, sounding very much like a parent who is too tired to deal with this kind of shit from their child. Somehow, that thought only irks Brendon even more. “It’s my job to keep an eye on you. I don’t want you running around and getting into trouble.”

“I’ll be fine.” Brendon mutters as he turns away from him, hands already curling into fists inside the pockets of his hoodie. “Call me if it’s time to go.”

He leaves before Zack can stop him again. All clad in black, he doesn’t have to do much to make himself invisible once he steps his foot outside the building. He easily blends into the night, the fans and people nearby never giving him a second glance as he walks past them to a place anywhere his legs are taking him.

They eventually take him to a park, and he strolls along the trails, enjoying the sound of the crickets chirping and leaves rustling until he comes to a stop in a playground. A soft smile creeps up on his face; he remembers the easy days, where the only thing that he had to worry about was not tripping while running around freely with a popsicle in his hand and not paparazzi taking pictures of him and dissecting him to the core and presenting the report to the world like they know him inside out.

He closes his eyes and breathes in the cool air as if it can bring him back to that exact moment in his childhood. When he opens his eyes again, everything is still the same. He’s still in the dark park, only illuminated by the warm glow of the orange streetlight, the playground empty.

He moves to sit on the swing, hands clutching onto the chains as the swing slowly rocks back and forth before he swings himself higher until he can feel the chilly breeze stroking his face, and he can’t help but laugh at the feeling.

It feels so liberating to be on the swing this late and alone. There’s no one to tell him that _time’s up, we gotta go back_ or _don’t go any higher or you’ll fall._ For a moment, as he swings back up, he feels like he’s the king of the world. Like he can have everything within his reach and handed over to him on a silver platter, like his words are commands to everyone.

He doesn’t have to cater to anybody’s needs anymore. He can just be himself, and no one would dare to say a single thing.

“It feels good, huh?”

Brendon lets out a surprised yelp at the voice, and he scuffs his shoes against the rubber mulch to slow the swing down. He whips his head to the source of the voice, finding a hooded figure, very much like himself, lying down on the slide with his feet planted on the ground. The stranger has both his arms crossed behind his head, like a pillow, and Brendon can’t tell whether he has his eyes closed or if he’s staring up at the starry sky.

“Um. Yeah.” He answers, quiet and sheepish, and he chances a glance to the stranger again. He can’t get a good look at his face, obscured by the hood, but he can see his a pair of hipster-like glasses perched above the bridge of his nose. When the guy doesn’t seem like he’s about to reply to him, Brendon begins to move the swing again.

They sit in silence for a while, just enjoying the night and each other’s presence, until the stranger speaks up again. “Is something on your mind? I’m all ears if you want to talk.”

Brendon chews on his bottom lip as he swings back and forth slowly. It’s okay to talk to a stranger, right? The stranger doesn’t know who he is, right? So… there’s no way what he’s going to say will be revealed to the public… right?

“You don’t have to—”

“I- I do.” Brendon cuts him off mid-sentence, having made up his mind. With a more confident voice, he repeats himself. “I do have something on my mind, and I- I want to talk. If that’s okay?”

His voice falters at the end of his sentence, suddenly feeling insecure and filled with thoughts that _maybe the stranger was just being nice_ and _he doesn’t really want to listen._

The sound of rattling chains break him out of his thoughts. He looks up and sees that the stranger is sitting on the swing beside him, his legs pushing the swing back as he tilts his head up to the sky, the movement making the hood slip down a little, a small tuft of blond hair peeking out from underneath it.

“I’m ready when you are.”

Brendon nods his head, even though he knows the stranger doesn’t see it. He begins to swing again—him swinging forward, the stranger backward—and he blows out a breath. “Have you ever felt invisible? I mean, like, people not seeing you for who you really are?”

The stranger hums, his voice warm amidst the chilly surrounding, and oddly enough, Brendon finds comfort in it. He doesn’t sound judgemental, which is the only thing Brendon can ask for.

“I suppose. It’s like…” The stranger pauses mid-sentence, gathering his thoughts, probably.  Brendon waits patiently for him to continue. “Like you want to put the mask away for good. Like you want people to know that there’s more to you than just the surface.”

“Yeah, that’s actually it.” Brendon nods vigorously, his face breaking out into a smile of relief when he realizes that _okay, he’s not alone in this._ “Don’t get me wrong. I’m thankful for what I have, it’s just… I don’t know…”

His voice trails off into silence, and he stares at his shoes—his legs extended to give him that extra push on the swing. He’s swinging higher than the stranger now, but the stranger seems content with the slow pace he’s going.

Of course he’s thankful. There’s no way he’s not. He remembers the day he was approached by a talent scout after he’d finished singing at some cafe as a part-time job, and the agent gave him a card and told him that he had the potential to be big.

 _“You’re going to be the hottest craze ever. Everyone will_ love _you.”_

At the age of sixteen, of course nothing mattered to him but fame and money. But now, as a fully grown adult approaching 25 years old, he’s had some moments where he regretted signing the contract.

_“Those people don’t care about music, kid. They only care about pretty faces, and you’ve got one.”_

His throat tightens at the reminder. The words were thrown in his face when he was just seventeen—still too young to be in the industry, still too naive, and he was slapped with the harsh truth at the very same age.

“Sometimes I wish I can take everything back.” He finally whispers, his voice breaking the slightest. “Does that make me selfish?”

“I think it makes you human.” The stranger replies, seemingly not to notice the crack in his voice, which Brendon is glad for. “We know our limits. We know when we’ve reached them, when we’ve crossed them, but it’s the fear of letting people down that makes us keep going.”

Brendon snaps his neck to look up at the man beside him, the lump in his throat growing bigger with each word uttered by the stranger. It’s as if the stranger took the words right out of his mouth.

“You want to say no, that you’ve had enough, but you didn’t. You’re done playing a character, and now you just want to play you—who just wants to be heard. Appreciated. None of those materialistic stuff.”

“That’s- yeah.” Brendon breathes out, stunned that this person seem to know him _so_ well despite being a stranger. He just wants to make his _own_ music, play his _own_ music, _do his own thing._

He doesn’t want to sing other people’s music. He doesn’t want to sing other people’s lyrics. He wants to make his own.

And he wants people to support him because of his _music,_ not because of his _looks._

“So…” Brendon kicks against the ground to push the swing higher. “What do you think I should do?”

The stranger’s soft chuckle sends a rush of warmth to his chest. “Sometimes all you need to do is to just breathe and enjoy the view. Take it slow, plan everything out, even if it means breaking the chains around yourself.”

When the stranger’s swing skids to a stop, he stands up from his swing, hands smoothing the material of his hoodie. “It’s getting late. I should go.”

Brendon’s heart drops a little. He doesn’t want the stranger to go, though. It’s the first time he’s ever felt so connected with someone. “Can I have your name?”

“Patrick.” The stranger smiles as he pulls his hood down, his pale skin and blond hair showing under the dim streetlight. “Thanks for the conversation. Keep your chin up, alright? Hopefully we'll get to see each other again soon, Brendon.”

Brendon’s mouth hangs open at Patrick’s retreating back as he watches his figure getting smaller and smaller until he’s out of sight.

He can’t believe it.

He just… he just talked and had a heart-to-heart conversation with _Patrick Stump._

Patrick Stump. One of the world’s top multi-instrumentalist, who wrote, played, sang _and_ produced his own album as well as several other artists’.

Patrick Stump. His idol.

Patrick Stump. _His crush._

“Oh God.” He rubs his burning face with his hand and shakes his head, laughing a little. He can’t believe that Patrick knows his name. Knows _him_.

_Knows that he exists._

This night just can’t get any better.

He jumps off of the swing and heads back to the bus, whistling all the way. After the conversation he had with Patrick, he suddenly feels a surge of confidence burst through him. He’s been following Patrick ever since he got thrown into the music industry. He knows Patrick had been through the same thing as he did.

People didn’t really pay attention to him when he was chubby before, but now that he’s skinny, all of a sudden everyone does. They even went as far as commenting how _Patrick looked adorable chubby,_ and _how come people didn’t listen to his music before._

And it made him mad. It's not fair that Patrick and his music get to be treated like that just because of his appearance.

But at least Patrick’s making his own music now. He doesn’t have to listen to anyone in suits gathered around a conference table. He gets to be fully and completely in charge of his music, and that’s what made him admire the artist even more.

He looks up when the tour bus comes into view, and he can feel a fierce resolution embedding itself in his chest.

Yeah. He can do this. He’s just going to breathe and take everything slow.

Then, he’s going to break the chains and take his life back.

“Did you have a nice walk?” Zack asks when he enters the bus.

“Yeah.” Brendon replies, his lips curving into a small but fond smile as he thinks of a particular musician, who just made him feel less lonely in the shitty industry. “Yeah, I actually did.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it! :D
> 
> Get ready for more Brentrick! ~~Or more specifically, a long-ass Brentrick~~


End file.
